Trainwreck Chapter 1 (unfinished novel)
‘It’s all your fault…’ I was muttering, ‘all yours.’
My head hung. My eyes, glazed with salty tears, watched the floor seemingly wallowing below. Eventually, gravity took hold and the same salt-ridden river clustered to drops, splattering at my feet and dispersing. Dispersing to the point of almost being absorbed into the sheen tiles. I felt lighter. The choking grip grasping my throat seemed to loosen; but not release. I could move my head. I could lift my eyeline to hers. It was a gradual process; I was still very much recovering. At any point, the weight of it all would hammer down on me once more. The dam would shatter, and the river would flow.
‘It’s all your bloody fault,’ was my reaction as I held her gaze for a matter of seconds, ‘all this mess – this incoherent mess. It was unnecessary. Laughably avoidable.’ As predicted, those couple sentences stripped my throat of moisture and I was left coughing and spluttering pathetically. Left as a pathetic, incoherent mess.
She said nothing. She’d said nothing ever since we entered the room. She’d done nothing ever since we entered the room. She sat there, silent and still and motionless. Emotionless. I couldn’t even read whether she was judging me as I reluctantly swallowed my pride in front of her. Those two silver discs were following my every movement, studying the twists and turns of my anguish. Was she being patient? Was she waiting for me to calm down? Her countenance gave no clues. We just sat there, patiently waiting for each other, blinking to the sterile beep of the heart rate monitor.
‘It’s just all your fault…’
* * *
Gasping for air, I awoke. With a panic-fuelled glance around me, I assured myself that I was conscious. Safe within reality, or at least as safe as I could be. Hesitantly, I reached up to my cheeks, red-raw and soaked in tears, and patted them lightly. I’d never been a fan of nightmares. I know that seems like a needless comment, but I don’t mean so in any old set of circumstances. They were inconvenient at worst, when I was a small boy, but now, they drive me to my edge. I forget sometimes, you see. I forget what I want to forget and then forget what I’ve gladly forgotten. However, dreams, nightmares specifically, scratch through the file cabinets of my unconscious and tear away at the shackles. The shackles I label ‘forgetting’. With those dear but haunting memories, they twist and warp them. Manipulate them into guilt-ridden manifestations, designed to torture me without there being any obvious means of escape. A helpless captive of my own conscious. That’s why I don’t like to dream. It’s nothing depressing, but I prefer the darkness. I’ve always been something of a minimalist myself anyways, I don’t need all the visual stimuli dreams provide, especially when there’s the probability of a nightmare right around the illusory corner. Sleep isn’t something I much enjoy generally – it’s just necessary. Isn’t it 11 days a human can survive without it? I can’t be sure. Nevertheless, I think I’ve only managed about 3 days without rest so far. Once I was utterly absorbed in a piece of mine, another glamorous depiction of Maria, my loyal sister and model, to the point where my brush couldn’t drop. My eyes couldn’t blink. My head couldn’t fall. To this day I can’t pinpoint what I ran on, but I’d like to think it was admiration, of both my work and her. Maria, in the natural daylight, with her slight and modest smile intermingled with the dew-spotted forest encompassing her.
Returning to reality once more, I took a second glance around me. This time, I caught sight of the window which showed a night dead silent. It was unusual for a city as densely populated as this for a night to be silent, but we were enduring winter after all. I suppose it really wasn’t too surprising; more so pleasant than anything. I can’t recall how long I sat up in my bed with my cheeks red-raw and my eyes fixated on the windowpane, however, I do remember the gentle patter. The gentle patter, awaking me from the trance, of rainfall. I do like rain. It’s calm, like most forms of water, and welcoming. It knocked at the window as if begging to be listened to – to be understood. Everyone hid away whenever it came down, and it couldn’t comprehend why. Of all the elements, rain was the most human, the most relatable, in my opinion. It didn’t require much but it inconvenienced everyone whenever it felt lonesome and in need of company. Rain was misunderstood.
I felt like a coffee.
The subtle splash of the milk almost synchronized with the rain’s tap, forming a simple harmony. I poured and poured, enveloped in the union, until the mixture peeped over the rim of my hand-painted mug and dribbled down the walls. I let it. The droplets distorted the seamless illustration of moors, blurring each smooth brush stroke, each curve of a hill and branch of a tree. However, I still let it. Sipping at the froth, I made my way towards the window, shuffling cautiously from my kitchenette and through the living space. I clutched the mug to my chest, steadying it as each step sent it lapping at the sides. The light switch couldn’t have been more than a metre to my right, but somehow, this scene felt much more expressive in low light, although it significantly increased the difficulty of my manoeuvre. As I shortened my distance between me and the windowpane, an enticing warmth came over me. My drink was still searing; however, it was a much more alternative type of warmth – a warmth from within rather. Each droplet that flew onto the glass felt like a desperate but pointless attempt, as if it wished to come in, to sit down, to enjoy a hot cup of coffee alongside me. As if it would take a seat with me, shoulder to shoulder, upon my pristine new white sofa and listen to the gentle patter of rainfall – swaying to the harmony of their brothers; sisters; friends. I took a couple more sips from my mug until settling it lightly on the counter, soon missing its hot touch on my fingertips. I pressed my hands up firmly to the window. Now, I could feel the rhythm. It was irregular but oddly controlled. An utter mess which somehow still felt conducted. I really do like the rain.
The clock ticked 2am. Not literally though, my clock is digital. I was too enchanted to sleep. It was a quick decision, but it was too peaceful of a night to miss out on – just to sacrifice to my unconscious self. I shook an umbrella free from a jumbled pile, slid on what felt like suitable shoes and, without space to think, I was stumbling down the dim corridor, almost tripping over my own feet twice on the way. Footsteps echoed in the vacant building as my neighbours peacefully slumbered, unaware the recluse had made an appearance. When I really considered it, I’m unsure how many of my neighbours would recognise me on the street; how many would know my name. I’ve never been intent on erasing my existence from public knowledge, but it’s incredible what can be done by simply lacking effort. It’s been about four years since I made that minute studio flat my abode, and ever since people have been leaving and moving in. Some people have gone up in the world, gained promotions and met friends in high places. Others have gone to the other end of the spectrum, became redundant or been kicked out of home. The dynamic state of this flat block, I personally think, really exemplifies the instability of our positions in society. Nobody who comes here imagines this is how their life would pan out and that’s the rub. It’s either a springboard or a last chance before you simply lose an abode altogether.
A couple beeps sounded, and the locks released, exposing me to the pounding reality of rainfall. Almost in a frenzied panic, I positioned my umbrella, fiddling with the mechanics until I was fully shielded. The drumming upon my umbrella top was quite dissimilar to the tapping on the windowpane. It was less calm, for sure, and much more eccentric, perhaps. Much more forceful and excitable; slightly unpredictable. Rain took upon a much different approach when you truly exposed yourself to it, but at least it was honest. At least it was pure – clear as crystal. Streams tumbled clumsily down the roadside, pooling at gutters that overflowed. How long had it been since I woke up? How long had it been since it started raining? It wasn’t unusual for my trains of thought to chug on at a slower speed than I’d assumed. They were less so electric bullet trains and more steam engines, if we are to continue the metaphor. It works out swimmingly in that respect – I’ve always been more of an old-fashioned man myself. Always been the kid who was born in the wrong era. Time pushes on at such a brisk pace to the point where steam engines might as well give up on their journey, huffing out their last cloud of vapour as they slow to a halt and stare longingly at the bullet trains that hurtle ahead. Of course, there’s always those who make time for steam engines and admire their authenticity, polishing their best edges and keeping them fuelled. However, those collectors have become even more uncommon as time beats on and we’re left to fend for ourselves. Stagnant and neglected on the tracks, obstructing the paths of others to come, we stay, and we wait. We wait for time to dwindle once more so we can enjoy it again.
I’d prattled off the rails. I turned upwards towards the skeleton of my umbrella and pricked my ears attentively, zoning in on the droplets. They were tapping again; they had calmed. It felt like they’d accepted me, a foreigner who’d ventured far off course. I was grateful. Honoured. Not honoured enough to peer out from beneath my shield but enough to catch a few drops in my palm, squashing them into my flesh with my thumb. I must have been dawdling in that spot, just outside the main doors, for over a quarter of an hour before I realised my initial mission. The park – I must make it to the park at least. This part of town had a local park, the only place with any form of maintenance. It was treasured and respected, usually over people’s own apartments. If you took an afternoon walk not far into the usual lunch hour, you’d come across locals knelt, soaking their knees in the soil, grooming the gardens with a touch so light it would tickle a ladybug. My dear neighbours drown weeping flowers in water, desperately yearning for them to arise again, to sprout to their former splendour. In general, it is a pathetic sight on most occasions, but it is a beautiful place. Most of my works are painted or at least completed there. I don’t exactly paint the scenery since I’d class myself as more of a portrait artist, indulging more in natural anthropic elegance than anything else, however, it is an inspiring atmosphere. I’m more than fortunate to have it so nearby and its proximity is most likely what gives my flat the little value it retains. Although, its effect on my rent is the least desirable trait of it, if I’m honest.
I soaked up the murmur of the rain droplets above and the dribble as they only glazed the top of the fabric, slumping hopelessly down the slopes as a result. It was an exciting constant. A pleasant background noise to suit my surroundings, or, you could rather say, contrast them. After all, it was a city, and there was nothing calming about that. As you could probably imagine at this point, being a steam train and an orphan to my era, I was not here by choice. The calamity of people storming these streets, by day, drained my energy before I’d even taken a couple of steps outside. If anything, this is the furthest I’d gotten to venture in a good while before the uproar would muffle my senses. My heart would race, startled by every honk of a horn and holler of a homeless drunk. Cities aren’t for the faint of heart and mine is a mere ghostly outline, a cowardly sketch. Hence why this night was so precious to me, because I love my city even if it wouldn’t be my preferred option of location. I’d never lived anywhere else so it was difficult to not get attached – it had raised me when nobody else would and that’s the beauty of a city. As I said, I’m more interested in anthropic grace but, in the end, nurture is what shapes the person. It’s what influences their posture; their composure; their countenance. It governs how they face you: either daring you, with taunting eyes, to capture their every glimmer of light; or pleading with you, with a trusting and humble coolness, to understate their alluring shadows. This is all, or at least for the most part, controlled by their environment, so really my works are all intrinsic to this city in one way of another.
I do consider what would happen if I left. Would my style change? Would my taste change? Perhaps the people outside this city aren’t quite as elegant? I wouldn’t know – I’ve never ever left. Although I ponder this, I don’t have too much of an incentive to leave and explore the rest of the country. At least I’m accepted here. I’m unsure how secure my place in society would be anywhere else. I’ve spent hours ruminating on this, clashing with my curiosity, however, in the end my lack of funds concludes this conflict for me. No matter how curious I become, my bank balance will limit and, potentially, save me in the end. That’s a positive spin to put on it anyways.
Moonlight beamed down as I turned the corner onto a wide street. It was illuminated much more in white than the tentative yellow flickers of streetlights. Desolate. The street was vacant of movement, I concluded, as I scanned down the vast aisle, tottering past each perfectly parallel-parked car. The drumming on the car shells reflected much more of sighs, husky and grave in manner, which unsettled my ears since I’d come so accustomed to a tranquil patter. With a crunch, I trampled unknowingly over a disposed can and rolled it over with my heel, studying the playful ‘Coke’ logo before kicking it further aside. Next, an abandoned orange peel lay in my path, supposedly left to rot, although it served no purpose to soil here. With this, I instead slid it into my pocket, counting it as subtle service to my homeplace. I came to interact with many other lost objects on my journey down this long stretch of road, left to decay where they lay with no consideration. This is what happens in a world of speed – details are overlooked but that doesn’t result in them simply disappearing. They build up more and more until they’re big enough to be noticed; to be understood.
Festering in thought, I veered around another corner, finally making my way off the pale main street and instead walking alongside the local bookshop, lined with fresh shrubbery by the owner. I knew the man well and I took a liking to him, although I’ve always found reading quite the struggle. His general temperament puts me at ease and I’m grateful for his tolerance since I never take note of his recommendations. Reading has always been a great struggle for me – the mass of inky text intimidates me more than anything and the lack of dynamics and variation in its aesthetic never retains my attention. In short, I don’t read. I never have and I can’t imagine I ever would. That, alongside my bank balance, severely limits me…
I was merely a few minutes from the park at this point whilst the melody of tears above me pounded on my ear drums, evoking a hurried pace from within myself. Excitement flushed over me in an all-encompassing wave. My imagination tingled with the thought of beaded leaves, shielded by their layer of wax. The thought of flowers quenched in their drink. The thought of peace and nature and harmony. I was overcome by my artistic temperament in that moment, to the point where I almost missed her. In fact, I did. I’d taken about five or six steps past where she stood but my peripheral vision caught her just about. It glimpsed her stream of silver locks flailing down her back, falling to the middle of her thighs, and clambering over her right shoulder. I retraced my steps, reversing cautiously. Time dwindled. I studied her for a few minutes, paused in a form of awe. She was so pale, as pale as moonlight, as bloodless as a skeleton. Her eyes were much the same, a vivid silver, sparkling as each raindrop flew across her vision. However, her pupils were difficult to locate. These eyes resembled discs more than they did human optics, so I came to assume she may be blind. As time continued, this discovery itself excited me just as much. I felt deductive, attempting to figure out this subject purely from first glance.
My focus lowered down to her attire. It was a frosty white one-piece, patterned with sombre black stripes. This consisted of a strapped top, strings crossed at the back, connecting to a pair of trousers ending about five or six inches above her ankle. She was both devoted but not truly devoted to dressing appropriately for the weather. From my perspective, her get-up was utterly useless against the current climate but, to her, perhaps this was her best attempt. My picture of her was someone alternative, trying relentlessly to suit her needs but just losing her grasp of reality. Her garments exhibited her figure reasonably well, leaving this also open to my analysis. Slim build, maybe even too slim, more so skinny, perhaps. Her arms further suited my skeletal comparison, as pale white as the rest of her and almost breakable. One was stretched out in front of her, as if she was reaching desperately for something, although her expression was resting and didn’t resonate any sense of urgency. She also wore no shoes. It had taken me a while for my eyeline to drop this far but this was the most unusual discovery, the one most supporting my alternative interpretation. There were no socks either. The girl was bare foot on the concrete pavements of the city, surrounded by shattered beer bottles and discarded cans. I started to feel like she was daring or just simply free-spirited and naïve. My analysis was most likely giving her too much credit, though, and she was probably just unimaginably forgetful. Personally, I’d say my favourite feature of hers was her neck, and this wasn’t surprising. In most the women I sketched, I took quite a preference to painting their necks, and I’d never fully comprehended why. However, I’ve theorised it’s because it’s some sort of a segregation point. It separates the person from their physical form, in a way, and I liked that powerful aspect. Nevertheless, this girl was stunning in her entirety.
With my deduction over, I hesitated in awe again for a few minutes, before finally realising…she hadn’t moved. It must have been ten minutes at least and she had been completely motionless. Was she sleeping? It would be an odd scenario but I’m sure it happens. Was she frozen in fear? Her expression said otherwise. The girl was simply…still. Simply frozen in time.
I blinked multiple times whilst almost mimicking her stillness. This was quite a find, indeed. However, it was at this moment that I became overwhelmed with a desire to act. Call the police? An ambulance? Shake her awake? These options felt violently out of character for me. The idea of being surrounded and suffocated by policemen, all scribbling swiftly each syllable I spoke, made me tremble in discomfort. I should just leave. It was the simplest move, since I’d admired her to my heart’s content at this point and, truly, there was nothing left for me here. I pivoted on my heel in a bid to forget, directing myself back towards my initial mission. I took five or six steps…and returned. She was so beautiful. So naturally bewitching.
Without much of a second thought, I leaned in closer. Close enough that I could watch the cloud of steam I breathed settle on her skin. Her current pose was slightly awkward and maybe even a bit artificial to the eye. Furthermore, her outstretched arm gave more of an effect of desperation and loss rather than comfort in one’s own skin. This was always my preferred atmosphere in paintings - a feeling of idealism. Delicately, I held her elbow joint and brought her arm inwards. She, or her body at least, obeyed diligently and I was able to settle her hand at her shoulder. Giving it a light shake, I handed over my clear umbrella and clasped her fingertips around it, shifting each one into place with an obsessive precision. This, however, left her other arm uncomfortably limp at her side, as still as ever but so loose and misplaced that it gave off a sense of dangling movement. With only two taps on my upper lip, I decided to gently lift the limb up towards the handle of the umbrella and, with attention to individual digits, clasped it around the other hand, giving an effect of stability. Her hair was dynamic – full of natural kinks and textures and, with such length, it fully overlaid her back. It was an asset difficult to dismiss, I’d thought, as I carefully lay each lock at different angles – perfect angles. Being a tedious task, this took at least half an hour as I would perfect and re-perfect the structure each time I stood back to admire.
A living mannequin, wooden and sturdy, she stood. Her eyes gazing out beyond this reality. Glazed. Her hands grasping the umbrella handle as if tuned into the patter of the raindrops. I smiled modestly and slightly. For the first time in almost a year, I had a model again.
Overlooking the puddles beneath me, I sat and settled on the pavement below, fumbling for my sketchpad that was always slotted inside my side pocket, waiting impatiently for a moment of elegance so it would be reached for again. I flipped over a couple pages at an inaccurate estimate and drooped my umber curls forward like a canopy, shielding the paper. Shivering somewhat, I sensed the cold drops crawling down my scalp as the rain picked up its pace, and I, suitably, picked up mine. The sketch was rough, but it was what I needed. It enveloped my concentration, just as Maria had. Although the rain began to hammer, and the clouds began to darken, and thunder cracked above in a vicious taunt, I kept drawing. My pencil point chipped away on the surface, gliding at each long stroke, such as the curve of her back or the waves in her hair. Slowly, my locks began to drip, soaked in the affection of rainfall. Nonetheless, I was positioned just right and drops fell everywhere but in front of me. Everywhere but on my sketch.
However, this was short-lived. It was like a soft, single beat of a base drum. So soft but so present. A sound that lay beneath everything else and was easy to overlook but, nevertheless, on its own, it was powerful and bewitching. When undistracted, its importance and its essentiality was realised. I promptly recognised this. It was a fall too great for a simple raindrop descending gracefully from the sky. Its attack on my sketch was vicious. Forceful. Dedicated. My eyes were still downcast as I remained snugly hunched over my work, but the drops kept darting towards me. Resting my pencil upon my lap, I blinked a couple times, supposedly in preparation. My blood was ice cold like the water seeping through my roots. I didn’t know how I felt. It coincided with being nervous but really, I conclude it was fear. Terror. Alarm. Moreover, it wasn’t just my blood, my fingertips were numb, and my legs seemed frozen to the spot – I couldn’t move. Although all this adrenalin pulsed through me, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run. A chill pierced into me, like an icicle’s point, on each second as I simply sat there. Helpless. Hopelessly still.
I blinked a couple more times, hard. I squeezed my eyelids tight shut, almost attempting to escape this bitter cold by sheer will. Many moments passed whilst I was in this condition. They crawled past. I’d raised my head, so gradually it was barely conscious movement, so that the droplets whipped against my cheeks, causing a subtle stinging sensation. Tentatively, I looked down to my side, observing the glistening trails left on my cheekbones; like scratch marks, they adorned my face as if it had been designed. As if it had been planned. I blinked once more and met her gaze – her blisteringly cold gaze. The gaze that caused time to dwindle and limbs to freeze.
She twirled my umbrella round in a nonchalant manner, indifferent to the mysterious object she suddenly now grasped, or the Hispanic boy knelt pathetically at her feet. The raindrops hit the umbrella top for merely a second before the circular motion sent it flying once more, hurtling through the stagnant air and onto the forgiving surface of my cheek. Too confined in awe, I left it there, and it dawdled down my profile and gathered at my chin. When it could grip no longer, the drop finally fell, leaving another glistening stream. A most suitable tear. In contrary, she stood quite composed beneath my shield, still gripping the handle with two hands just as I had directed. This stable control gave her spins a fantastic fluency, almost making stagnant air refreshing and dynamic around her.
Her eyes focussed on me. They hadn’t blinked. I began to question whether they could; I began to refer to my mental notes. Was she truly blind? Do blind people blink? Could she see me? Still kneeling, I lay my notepad down to rest in my lap, raised a hand and clicked. I brushed together my index finger and thumb right within her eyeline, but still she didn’t even twitch. She continued to stare blankly right at where I resided with optics a cool grey, a cool grey all over. Purely iris. Sterling silver plates glazed with a shiny varnish. Eyebrows dark and thorough, much less silver and rather a mid-grey, perfectly highlighted her mystifying upturned eyes. Her upturned eyes that had blinked.
I returned to a numb state, hesitant to divert my gaze. Almost as if it was a bid for communication, she flaunted her new ability, frightening me still with many further flickers of her eyelids. Taunting me with each breathe she would inhale and then slowly release as warm steam, as misty and legitimate as my own. The woman was living, and she assured I knew so. Her gaze was still icy, but it was focussed, focussed on me. Zoned in on my breathing, my eyes. She was probably deducing who I was and a handful of my inner faults just with a glance at my attire. Although her countenance betrayed her of very little, it certainly radiated a vibe of intelligence. Her type of intelligence was difficult to differentiate but it was my first sense of her when I initially caught her eyeline. Awaking from whatever trance she’d been caught in, she wasn’t shaken. She moved steadily but surely, as if she could comprehend all her surroundings to finest detail and had no doubts that she was acting correctly. Her palm sliced effectively through the air and reached beyond the cover of my umbrella. Several raindrops collected obediently in her palm and drizzled inwards, huddling together into one. The woman clasped her hand tenderly into a fist and drew the quivering raindrops closer to her torso. Her fingers blooming open like a lotus, she adored them for a calm minute, and I observed, enthralled, as they seemed to almost change matter within her pale palm.
This was when I began to grow impatient. Curiosity drove me as this mysterious being, so composed and civilised, twirled my umbrella as if it was her own and held the rain tight as if greeting an old friend. Although exceptionally still, energy coursed through my veins, anticipation for her next movement beating in my temple. I could do nothing but watch. However, I’d been deprived of her scrutiny too long and my preserved disposition finally thawed. I collapsed forwards, managing to reach out my hand momentarily, steadying myself. I clutched my notepad briskly, saving it from the damp pavement. Nevertheless, the pound of my wrist against the ground and gentle scratching of my heels, whilst my ankles subsided, was enough. Just enough to snatch the attention of those intense optics.
It felt unnatural. Up to now she had moved so smoothly, so softly. I’d become adjusted to this pace to the point where I was ignorant, thinking I understood her. Thinking I could predict her. As soon as I dared to budge, her whole composure changed. Although her expression was as neutral as before, her body language was defensive. Her silhouette was constructed of sharp, crisp edges, all in response to me. The freezing sensation that had pained me from the start now began to bite much harder, gnawing at me beneath my skin. Rain hammered down, striking at the pavement, each drop self-destructing into shrapnel upon the ground. I watched the dismal clouds gather together, cutting off the pale, continuous stream of moonlight I’d previously dawdled in. Water gushed, choking the gutters as it spewed up more liquid than it could guzzle, drowned in what it consumed. It unnerved me. The atmosphere unnerved me. The people of this city might as well have spontaneously flung open their doors and filed chaotically onto the street, muffling my senses as usual. An anxious rhythm punched within my chest. A cowardly shiver slivered through my veins.
Suddenly, the stagnant air leapt from its slumber, thrashing at the freshly planted shrubbery relentlessly. My locks became caught up in the spirited energy and swayed along to the powerful force, along with the waves and kinks of the challenging woman above me. Her deduction had finished. She had concluded.
Her skeletal figure loomed over me as she pounced forwards, propelled by her right foot. I had seconds to consider my response and it was far from enough. Fortunately, my peripheral vision aided me once more as it caught a glimpse of her hand outstretched beside me; her nails clear, long and filed. Dangerous. I evaded her, spurred by pure panic, leaning backwards and securing myself with my fingertips. However, it wasn’t my head she was grasping for. Her fingers briefly fussed with the corners of my sketchpad and, with one swift motion, she tore the open page violently from its spine. Violently but cleanly. With utter precision, she swept my work away from my possession and clenched it in her fist. I gasped, overwhelming my lungs with air and setting my pulse pounding. Now I wasn’t still with fear or cold or curiosity, but simply utter shock. Unforgiving shock. All I could do was surrender and watch whilst she stood, effortlessly, resistant to the ferocious winds, and scrunched my dear sketch into a condense sphere.
Scrunched it into a sphere and ate it.